The White Field in Butleigh used to belong to Patrick Whitefield, in fact he took his name from it. Some years ago he gave it to the Somerset Wildlife Trust and became its first warden. Since his death they have taken over the day-to-day management of the field, one of Britain's few remaining traditional wildflower meadows.

I have been visiting every summer, though last year I got there late and it had been cut for hay before I saw the wild flowers and orchids. This year I went this weekend, Easter Monday, and it is a carpet of cowslips. Later in the summer it will turn purple with a new wave of flowers. Then it will give a crop of dense, herb-rich hay.

Sitting in the little patch of woodland, that Patrick plan ted himself all those years ago, I have the feeling of being enveloped in the magic of nature left to its own devices. Patrick has bequeathed to us something very special.

​Apart from the occasional frost, the weather is wet. A couple of weeks before equinox the river nearly over-tops the floodbanks again; by the time I get there next morning the sky is clear and bright, the river is moving quickly, and there’s a sense of freshness that suggests spring is nearly here. A couple of large pools of water in the fields have re-appeared – which the birds are happy about, including a pair of swans. The water level has dropped after reaching a high point overnight: there’s a line of dead grass and reeds, clearly visible on the bank opposite, well above the morning’s water level.

By the following morning, though the river is moving quite fast, it looks muddy and murky. I remember the clear water in the river in Scotland and think that the amount of silt that the Brue is carrying, though considered normal for this area and this time, is not at all how the river should be. I realise that if my entire experience had been in Somerset then I wouldn’t even notice; it’s a peculiarity of human perception that if changes come about gradually then they don’t register as a threat or as a problem.

What I do notice is that sunrise gets earlier day by day, and that this is speeding up towards equinox. Even on frosty mornings it’s not so cold as it has been, and it warms up more quickly. Starlings I see now only in small, relaxed groups, looking for nearby feeding. Maybe a large formation flies over earlier, before I am up and about, but I’m sure there are less of them now. Spring is coming and it’s time for them to head back north. The river is settling snugly into its bed, much lower now than it has been, and the ground is definitely drying out.

On the equinox itself the sun rises bigger and rounder and more orange than I have ever seen it before. The river is smooth as glass, moving very slowly, and there’s not much cloud. I feel able to sit on the riverbank and watch for a while; it’s no longer so bitingly cold that I need to keep moving, and the stillness with birdsong in the background is inviting. A twig floating slowly downstream is like a gentle visual melody line. When I do get up to walk home, for the first time this year I can feel the warmth of the sun on the side of my face.

Before the end of the month there’s one more storm and a night full of howling wind and lashing rain. The river, that had been settling down to its summer level so comfortably, rises again dramatically – a few more inches and it would have flooded once more. In the river I notice the complexity of the currents: the main movement is in the centre, rough and pouring downstream, carrying sticks and other flotsam with it; at the edges it is slower, and sometimes spinning in circles. A clump of broken foliage on the cusp between the two stops and spins right round before moving on.

A couple of days later the wind has dropped and the mornings are bright and sunny. It’s spring once again. On the last day of March there’s a sharp frost. A heron takes off as I reach the river, loping away over the fields beyond the far bank. The river itself is steaming almost like a kettle, and the pool that has been replenished, a few fields away towards Cow Bridge, is doing the same. In the river, the water level has dropped back to where it was a week or so before; bubbly blobs of phosphate pollution are washing away and clearing. The sun comes out from behind low clouds, very bright and shining; there’s a feeling in spite of the frost that summer is approaching.

A pair of swans fly over; they must have taken up residence somewhere nearby. The cold spell has passed and the weather is grey and damp again for a few days, quite blustery and wild. The starlings seem more scattered; some of them in the distance over Street Hill, like puffs of smoke on the horizon. I notice more the birdsong of native species: on my way down to the river I was particularly struck by a thrush, singing in a tree – right next to the road – like it was announcing the imminent arrival of spring. On my way back a fox crossed in front of me, which I always take to be a good sign.

The cold returns for a day or two, then more rain: first misty drizzle, and the next day, after rain all night, the water level has risen noticeably. The rain continues through the day and into the night; the morning after is bright, but the sight that meets me is water up to the top of the flood banks and tipping over into the fields – which are becoming covered with water. Looking back towards the town gives the impression of being beside the sea. The drama, though, is the water coming over the bank and pouring down into the field with a roar like a miniature version of the Niagara falls. Even the starlings seem surprised – scattered and fluttering over the landscape as if they don’t know the way.

The nearby Butleigh road is flooded, with a car marooned in the middle of a huge puddle. This only lasts a day though; by the end of the weekend things are back to ‘normal’ – the sky is grey, but calm, the river smooth and flowing steadily; the starlings fly over high up and in huge, steady formations. The flooded field clears quite quickly though a pool remains – the one that has been here for several weeks now, but larger. Masses of starlings swarm across the ground that has been flooded, no doubt good for feeding; and there’s also a large group of gulls at one end of the pool. There are lots of gulls about, so still storms out at sea.

The weather changes with the sky a beautiful bright orange over to the east when the sun is about to come up. As I walk down the road a man appears on a bicycle; I had seen him some time before, in December when the mornings were at their darkest. I had been surprised by his sudden appearance out of the gloom and I had said “Whoah! You need a light!” – which he did. Now he appeared again, more easily visible but clearly still nursing a grudge about what he must have taken as a challenge: he deliberately rode his bicycle almost straight towards me, close enough to be threatening, and with “If you’re ever around me you need to keep your fucking mouth shut, mate.”

He rode past, so that his back was towards me; and then came the most extraordinary behaviour from some starlings. They came over whilst I was still walking down the road, a large mass of them that broke into smaller aerobatic groups. One group detached itself and circled around, forming itself into a tight ball; suddenly just one bird dropped from the centre of the formation and descended very quickly, almost like a stone towards the ground. A very strange morning: the date is February 10th.

The following morning is entirely winter: a world enveloped in mist and frost. As the sun rises there are swathes of steam coming off the river, adding to the mist in the air. The crisp grass is tinted white. The water in the river slides along, quite brisk, but smooth, on its way to somewhere warmer and more colourful. The sky is ready to turn bright, clear and blue, but not until the frozen morning has had its time. The starlings saunter by, inhabiting a scene that seems to suit them better than it does humans.

The cold weather continues through most of the month; sometimes a sharp frost, sometimes just clear and cold. The full moon floats high in the sky to the west just before sunrise, reflected in the near-stillness of the river. Sometimes the sunrise is bright with red and orange. The numbers of starlings are beginning to diminish; it is nearer to Spring Equinox now than to Imbolc, and the season is beginning to turn. There’s a new sense of vibrancy in the foliage, not quite visible yet but it’s there, ready to burst into life. The pools of water on the fields have nearly all drained away, and the ground underfoot feels more solid. The river seems to be settling down lower between its banks.

The last day of February this year is ‘a day out of time’ … It’s frosty and clear, and where there are streaks of cloud they reflect subtle shades of pink and orange. I alarm a pair of ducks that fly off noisily. My fingers are feeling very cold, and I head back home …